The Time of Giving
by AzureMischief
Summary: A Razoff fatfic (yes, you read right) from several years ago, translated from Russian I orginally wrote it in, and polished a little more. Enjoy the concentrated cosiness like I do. :]


_«Eat all that grows high, while you can stand;_

 _eat all that grows low, while you can sit;_

 _and enjoy, when all you can do is lay down.»_

That was the old saying Razoff memorized since young age and never did otherwise, whenever the Season of Giving started on the Glade of Dreams. This year, he also happened to be about to shed his old skin. If only anyone could see him now…

...Shedding your old skin is a long and boring thing. Sometimes it makes you wish you were a regular grey teensie — they don't do that, unlike the swamp gigantic ones. But once it comes off… Feels like a whole mountain fell off your shoulders: you forget everything that used to upset you. You feel like born again. The world and you, both are so new and freshly made. It's even a pity that you have to get back into your everyday getup afterwards…  
But today was different. Today was the tenth day of the Season of Giving — almost its middle, the «cream of the time», so he wouldn't even need the hunter getup. It's better to leave it home for now: it's not that Razoff will fit into it any time soon.  
Nobody noticed the green Count sneak through the reeds to his secret spot in the forest. Great. Who knows what would've been left of it if Razoff's bright, red and yellow jacket accidentally disclosed it...

...He came back to his senses in a shadow of a schmaple — feeling like thirty years younger and terribly — _horribly_ hungry. Of course he had long eaten his old skin, but what was the use?  
Dark amber drops of sap started falling off the branches of sun-heated schmaple trees. A sweet rain started to drizzle on the glade, drops falling into the grass and flowing all the way down Razoff's body («Got'cherself a sugar coat?», as Murfy would probably joke).  
The sweet rain soon stopped, and Razoff, having licked all the sap off of himself, moved on to amber sapsicles on the trunks and branches of the four schmaples.

When the sap ended and the hunger subsided, the Count was resembling a green whip much less.  
Last time he ate like that at Globox's — Razoff remembered laughing at himself when it turned out he couldn't buckle his belt back… Yeah, it was _back then_ , and now, with no one to see him, why not feast all by himself in a pleasant solitude.  
Not to mention there was way more to this secret place than just four schmaple trees with their tasty sap. Just a few steps away Razoff knew was a large cranberry patch… All _his_.

No matter what they say, eating berries when invited to a dinner and eating them the way he did now feel completely different. Now, there was no need to worry about messing his best suit with juice — or about Murfy swiping a handful of berries almost from under his nose, being a hooligan he is. Even from the air, the green Count would be hard to notice on the green moss at first — his green spotted back, anyway. His joy and pride, his cream-yellowish belly was almost the size of a small drum by now and would've easily disclosed him, but the Count didn't care anymore. The Glade of Dreams, both suns above his head, _the time itself_ became one blurry mix, in the center of which were only cranberries and him, Razoff.

...The Count gave a final gentle nip at a thin, now-empty cranberry stalk, and opened his eyes.  
«Wow...ee», he barely uttered, rising slowly on his elbow and observing the rather weighty reason _why_ he couldn't get up. To his luck, the belly was just the right size to lift a bit — enough to let him sit, lean his back to a tree, and drift off to sleep.  
After all, it's good to have such long arms — it'd be useless to try and lift such a globe with shorter ones — and short legs, because longer ones just wouldn't let you rest it on your lap comfortably enough.

The tenth day of the Season of Giving was getting closer to end, and the once-cranberry-and-now-razoffy patch almost disappeared beneath the evening fog. A green bed and a white blanket, schmaple rain and lots and lots of cranberries — a thought of all that in one day made the green Count smile to himself, not quite knowing how did he even deserve this much happiness.

«Huh?..» — Razoff suddenly winced. Could it be- a _rustle_ behind the bushes?

It better not be Begoniax. Not that old hag, no way.

...It _was_ Begoniax all right. Probably looking for some fresh roots for her potions. Or… no, better not even think about that. He's not in a position to even protect himself now.

The rustle stopped in a couple yards from Razoff. The Count froze, his eyes almost squeezed shut — or the witch would spy them right away even despite the fog, — nearly _feeling_ her look cling to his new skin like bog mud.

There was a moment of silence...  
...then he heard a spit on the ground from where Begoniax stood, and a croaky, tired voice:

«Nah, that's it, gotta go home. Found nothin', no big deal. Seein' things, that's what ya get with all the searchin' fer days 'n' skippin' meals. Three moons, heh… Nonsense...»

The bushes rustled again, this time farther and farther from Razoff: the sorceress must be going away.

The Count sighed with relief. That was close. And that last phrase of hers?.. Three moons?  
He quickly glanced down at himself and smirked. Well, not far from truth. Especially now, with the light of two moons beaming down, washing off the last traces of that sticky look — both off his body and from his memory. Well then, Razoff wouldn't mind to be the third moon for tonight, if this means laying like this, glowing with happiness, and chuckling to himself. That's what the Time of Giving _is_ for.

 _ **THE END**_


End file.
